


Balrog-Slayer

by AwayLaughing



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Egalmoth is here too he just never speaks, Fall of Gondolin, Gen, Lore - Freeform, Mythology - Freeform, POV Multiple, Storytelling, and technically this is about Ecthelion and Glorfindel, but posthumously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwayLaughing/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: Desperate bids for survival are not pretty or poetic. They are not meant to be shining beacons in the dark. Intentions can be meaningless however, and a people under siege can take their victories from even the most tragic of happenstances. And what could be more inspiring than the man - or men - who slay your monsters?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I very rarely publish the Silmarillion fics I write but here we are all the same. Liberties have been taken.

The suns struggled over the horizon, Arien’s light made wane and watery by the clouds. She was no less glorious, however. No matter how strong her light, Arien was always a welcome sight. Círdan found Galadriel at the highest natural point on Balar, as was her wont.

 

“You feel it too,” she said as he approached. He did not need to ask what she meant, the waters’ songs were weak, but they were there all the same.

 

“Something stirs in the north,” he said and she nodded. “Have you seen anything more?”

 

This time, she gave him a side glance. The weariness that was so seldom seen on the Noldorin lady flashed briefly. “Whence the north? Blood and flame and shadow, as ever,” she said. “And something comes, though I sense no malice.”

 

This was largely what had been whispered in the waters, carried by stream and river to the tides and eddies. “We will have to inform Elwing,” he said.

 

“Of course,” the lady said, and turned. “I trust that will be left to you, as ever?”

 

“I thought perhaps your lord husband might give the message,” Círdan said and her mouth twitched slightly.

 

“I will speak to him,” she said, and said nothing more as she departed.

 

* * *

 

 

Some hours later, when Arien had been shining long enough to beat out the clouds and leave the sky a clear blue dotted with white, Círdan found himself at a table with the lady Galadriel and her husband, Celeborn, as well as young Elwing and, somewhat alarmingly, lord Oropher. He could count on two fingers how many times Oropher had been willing to step onto Balar – including this time.

 

“The birds speak,” he said bluntly as Círdan entered the room. “My cousin says so do the waters.”

 

“Indeed, but they carry vagaries,” Círdan said. “I do not know that it is cause for concern; curiousity may suffice.”

 

To his surprise, it was Elwing who answered. The girl was quiet to the point of reticence, and young enough her council was not really expected.

 

“They are saying the Eagles have roused,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. Too quiet to carry any firm emotion. “They say no more.”

 

Well. There was not much to say to that. Everyone agreed to keep their eyes and ears open, guards were told to be vigilant – as they ever were but a specific reason always did a little something – and Sirion and Balar continued as they had done for years now.

 

* * *

 

It was thusly for another three days and four nights, until a cry went up in the forest outside Sirion. The scouts had encountered something, and by the time Círdan crossed the night darkened ocean to the mainland, the tale of what they had found was already rather jumbled. Refugees, everyone agreed though of what and from where varied greatly among each gossip he passed until he reached Elwing’s halls.

 

It was chaos here, but the controlled sort. People laden with blankets and bowls of food were running between the out buildings and the large kitchen. Guards bristled like agitated cats, but looked frankly thankful when he approached.

 

“What has set the cat among the pigeons?” he asked the elder of the two at the door to Elwing’s tower. The man sent him a wide eyed look.

 

“Refugees,” he said. “From Gondolin. The princess Idril is among them.”

 

Where he a younger elf, Círdan would have flinched in shock. The last great hidden Kingdom of the Noldor had long been considered safe. For many, it was its own beacon of hope, to know that the Noldor had created something lasting so far north. People spoke of the Gondolindrim in hushed tones, remembering those gleaming warriors who had come down on the orcs and traitors at Nírnaeth Arnoediad. It had not been enough to win the battle of course, but that so many had come from their safe, hidden valley had meant something to many.

 

Maybe even a bit to Círdan, though never wholly. He had seen many things fall to the Shadow and faith in stone and flesh was hard to justify.

 

Still he nodded his understanding to the guard as he entered. Just off the front door, more wide eyed guards stood near the usual sitting room and without a word they gestured for him to enter.

 

There indeed was sat Idril. Next to her was a human male – Tuor – who held a small boy on his lap, fast asleep. A very large warrior elf, one arm wrapped and pinned to his chest with dirty bandages, stood at her back. Elwing sat across from them, Oropher and lady Gwilwileth standing on either side of her. The Gondolindrim were dirty and it was not just the warrior who bore bandages; the Sindar’s faces were all tight with tension. Even young Elwing’s face was graver than usual.

 

“Lord Círdan,” lady Idril said, going to stand only to wince as she put weight on her feet. Cidan saw they were bare and bruised. The large elf at her left gently put a hand on her shoulder, and she sent him a weary smile as she resettled. “I apologize for not greeting you properly,” she said. Anything else she might have said seemed strangled by the weight of emotion, and he shook his head.

 

“You have flown far, princess Idril,” he said, “there is no need for formalities. Not this night.”

 

“Lady Idril,” she said, “I have no kingdom to be princess of, nor any king to be the daughter of.”

 

“I am sorry, my lady,” he said. “I had hoped the high king had survived.” Though when the name of Idril had spoken without that of Turgon, he had guessed his hope was in vain.

 

Her mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, in another age far removed from tragedy. “As do I,” she said. Then she turned back to the Sindar. “As I was saying – we are the only survivors, as far as we know. Some more may come in the weeks to follow but the plains were cut off by hoard and dragon fire, and there are precious few ways through the mountains. Fewer still that could be found in the dark by an elf, but not an orc.”

 

Silence reigned for a moment. Finally it was Gwilwileth who spoke. She was a hard enough woman in her own right, but more compassionate than Oropher.

 

“Were you pursued?” she asked.

 

“No,” Idril said. “The enemy was on our heels until-” she broke off again. Tuor made a small, low sound of loss, and the large elf hung his head, good hand covering his eyes. “Those that followed us are dead,” she said. “Forgive my inelegance, I’m afraid there was not quite...” she trailed off. “Time for proper grief. I can tell the tale, if you need but I would be forever grateful if we could reconvene come daylight.”

 

Elwing paused and then nodded. “After breakfast,” she said. Oropher’s face tightened in disapproval, but he made no move to gainsay his young queen.

 

“Very well,” Gwilwileth said. “Your highness, will you let the Gondolindrim stay among us?”

 

Elwing blinked, her dark eyes betraying nothing. If she said no, of course, Círdan would just bring them over to Balar, but this could be a turning point. Sirion existed in part due to the presences of Galadriel and Celebrimbor – and even Ereinion. Of course, not all of the Sindar would have fit on the island even then, but they served no small part in why the Sindar had settled where they had. The Gondolindrim did not share the same taint, indeed no tale of Turgon as a Kinslayer had ever reached Círdan.

 

“We will decide after the story,” she said finally and looked Gwilwileth for a moment, her uncertainty not quite showing, but could be conferred. “Lady Idril can sleep here tonight.”

 

“I thank you for your generosity, your highness,” Idril said, “however I think my people would prefer we all stay together, for the time being.”

 

“Most understandable, Lady Idril,” Oropher said. Círdan though he almost saw compassion in the proud lord’s eyes. Perhaps the obvious grief of their companions was strong enough to combat his distrust of the Noldor. “Will we be sending someone to collect them, your highness?”

 

“Yes, Thranduil,” Elwing said. Círdan suppressed a smile. Elwing’s affection for her pseudo-cousin was as strong as ever, it seemed. She thought him capable of most things under the sun and stars.

 

“He will be ecstatic,” Oropher said, “to have your trust in this duty. I will inform him when he wakes.”

 

“Good,” Elwing said. “You are all dismissed.”

 

Idril and her small group immediately made to leave – the lady leaning hard on her tall escort while Tuor kept a grip on what had to be his and Idril’s son. Even so young, he had the look of the peredhel, much like Elwing herself though he was not nearly so delicate looking.

 

And Elwing, for all her extreme youth, was not nearly so delicate as she looked.

 

Círdan followed the Gondolindrim out, staying a step behind them until they reached the building where the rest of the survivors were staying. He could hear weeping, even here. “Lord Círdan,” lady Idril said, turning to him.

 

“I followed only to say, lady Galadriel and lords Celebrimbor and Ereinion will want to hear of this,” he said. “And to ensure you will not mind that I tell them of your fate, insomuch as I know what has passed.”

 

“Oh,” lady Idril said. “Of course. Thank you Lord Círdan. Is it possible I will see my kin, soon?”

 

“As soon as you wish to come to Balar, my lady,” he said. “I’m afraid your kin does not enjoy much welcome, here in Sirion.”

 

“I see,” she said and whatever kept her as upright as she sagged slightly. “Arda marred, indeed.” She shook her head. “Thank you, lord Círdan. I will see you in the morning?”

 

“I will spend the night here,” he said. “Sleep, if you can lady Idril.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Círdan broke fast on his ship, and then made his way to the tower on the cliff. He met with lady Idril and her husband on the way to the door. This time, she walked without aid, her back straight and face clear. Tuor looked well rested too, and they were clean. Thranduil lead them, looking more curious than put off.

 

“Good morning,” he said to the three of them. “Did sleep find you?”

 

“Well enough,” lady Idril said. “Food certainly helped.” She looked up, “as does Arien. Lord Thranduil was just telling us about building this tower.”

 

“Ah,” Círdan said. “Has he reached the portion where he fell through the roof, yet?”

 

“No, I had not,” Thranduil said, managing to keep his aloof expression in place. He had his father’s fire, yes, but his mother’s steel. Once he was a little less callow, he might be impressive – to those who hadn’t known him growing up, anyway. “And please lady Idril. I am no lord – my father is.”

 

Tuor was the one who smiled at that, and for the first time, Círdan heard him speak. He had a fair voice, especially for the edain. “Perhaps we should not leave queen Elwing waiting?”

 

“Indeed,” Thranduil said. “Father is most interested in this tale.” He seemed, after a moment to see how this could be misconstrued. “Gondolin meant a lot, even to the Sindar.”

 

“Yes, I can see why,” lady Idril said, casting a non-judgmental eye around her. Quieter, as if to herself, she said, “great is the fall of Gondolin.”

 

* * *

 

 Even told in a warm sitting room, the tale was harrowing, but Idril and Turo never flinched. Where exhaustion and hunger had stripped them of their composure, it was back in full force now. From the foresight which had compelled Idril to make escape tunnels, to the suspected torment of Maeglin, son of Aredhel and his subsequent betrayal to the death of the king, neither had allowed their voices to shake. It was not until Tuor started to tell the tale of Echthelion, lord of the Fountain that anyone in the room reacted.

 

“Balrogs attacked Gondolin?” Gwilwileth demanded. No one here, ere Círdan himself, remembered the first battle and the terrible servants of Morgoth who had laid waste there, but they all knew the stories.

 

“Yes, Gothmog, and another besides,” Tuor said. “It was he – Gothmog – who Echthelion engaged so that more might flee with Idril.” Something like shame crossed his face. “Indeed, Echthelion engaged Gothmog to spare me, who failed.”

 

“There is no shame in that,” Círdan said. Turo nodded.

 

“Indeed, I never claimed to be so valiant a soul, or as gifted a warrior as Echthelion. Thus why he slayed Gothmog, even as he perished.”

 

The silence that ensued rang.

 

“Excuse me,” Oropher said, which was just another astonishment atop a previous one. “Did you say Lord Echthelion _slew_ Gothmog?”

 

“Indeed. He thrust his spear clean through Gothmog’s skull, and together the two fell into the waters of a fountain. Ecthelion lay dead, by the time we did retrieve him. I know not if he died in those cool waters, or if it was Gothmog who exacted one final revenge.”

 

Even Círdan had a hard time picturing it. Gothmog, most fiercesome of Morgoth’s Balrogs, slain by a single elf lord.

 

“Such as it is, apparently,” Idril said. “Glorfindel too perished upon slaying the Balrog who stalked us over the mountains. I know not its name, nor its face.”

 

“Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower fought and slew a Balrog himself?” Círdan asked. It came out calm, thank the Valar but in truth he could not begin to believe it. That two Balrogs were slain at Gondolin, both in single combat defied belief.

 

Maybe it showed on his face, because Idril’s chin tilted ever so slightly. “Yes. Just as Tuor lived to save Eärendil, and many lived to flee with us because of lord Ecthelion’s sacrifice, so to are we all here because lord Glorfindel stood alone against that foul demon, and died to ensure the Balrog could harry us no more.”

 

“Ai Elbereth,” Oropher said. Even Elwing’s eyes were wider than usual. Then the elf straightened, schooling his expression. “But we have got ahead of ourselves, in what peril did young Eärendil find himself?”

 

Idril and Tuor shared a look. Idril’s was harder than his, but there too was more grief.

 

“It is good,” Tuor said finally, “that Salgant was not there to witness it...”

 

* * *

 

It was not surprising that the news of the lords of Gondolin and the dead Balrogs made it back to Balar before he did. Sirion had been left open to the survivors of Gondolin, so long as they agreed to help build their own homes. Balar too was open, but Círdan had to admit it was an island, and thus somewhat lacking in available space. Balar also housed most of the wounded, which gave it an air sometimes lacking in joy. Even Sirion had its sunny days.

 

Ereinion and Erestor were waiting for him on the dock. Ereinion looked curious, and somewhat apprehensive. Erestor looked worried, but also like he was getting ready to remember every word out of Círdan’s mouth and write it all down later.

 

“Is it true?” he demanded once Círdan came close. “Gondolin has fallen?”

 

The people on the dock did not stop, exactly, but they were definitely listening. “Yes, less than a hundred souls have escaped so far. They do not think any more have escaped.”

 

A wave of prayers and laments went around, and Círdan waited. Once it stopped, a curly haired elleth inched forward.

 

“My lord, is it also true, what they’re saying about the lords of the Fountain and the Golden Flower?”

 

“What are they saying?” Círdan asked.

 

Erestor’s eyes narrowed – the elf could practically smell when someone was withholding information. “They’re saying the lords Echthelion and Glorfindel slew Gothmog.”

 

“Ah. Then no,” Cirdan said. “That feat is lord Echthelion’s only. Lord Glorfindel defeated another, whose name is not known to us. They both perished to ensure their victories.”

 

The furor that followed thankfully moved away from him as people grouped together to discuss what they now knew. Erestor was eyeing one of the boats, and Ereinion still looked anxiously curious.

 

“So you spoke to lady Idril?” he asked. Círdan nodded. Ereinion was silent a long moment. “Do you think she would like to meet me?”

 

Círdan almost smiled despite himself. The younger elf knew what this meant for him, it seemed, but still he wanted to meet his family. “Yes,” he said. “So to do Tuor and young Eärendil.”

 

Ereinion nodded once, before setting his shoulders and smoothing his face. “They will need to come to Balar,” he said. “I fear the Noldor have much to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

Celeborn had gone white, Galadriel had been inscrutable and Celebrimbor had laughed when Círdan shared the news about the Balrogs.

 

“I suppose if they could no longer be the infamous hidden city,” he said with a touch of wryness, “they had to regain their fame somehow.”

 

Celeborn sent the elf a disapproving look, which surprised no one. “Don’t be unkind,” he said, “this is unprecedented.”

 

Something that might have been irritation flashed in Celebrimbor’s eyes. “I am not being unkind,” he said. “Would that Nargothrond could claim half of such valour, but it does not change the fact there will be songs about Gondolin and its lords.”

 

It went unsaid that no one was singing songs of Nargothrond, even if they existed.

 

“It will certainly do something,” Galadriel said, eyes fixed on the middle distance despite their being in a parlour. “The fall of Gondolin was great indeed, it seems, but even in this darkness we have found a light.” Her smile was barely there, but a savageness lurked there. It reminded Círdan of Cuiviénen, of bloodied elleth staring into the yawning dark that had taken so much, and snarling right back at it. “If the Balrogs can be killed, what else can we do we thought we couldn’t?”

 

* * *

 

 

The lady Galadriel was not the only person who had that idea. By the end of the day there were debates all across the island. Some still doubted the veracity of that – and Círdan was not looking forward to the day one of those voices met one of the Gondolindrim – to feverish _what ifs_.

 

So far, at least, no one had reached the conclusion that following Fingolfin’s example was ever going to work.

 

Mostly, of course, people were grief stricken. Many of the Noldorin survivors here were grieving for their king, and for fallen heroes they had never met, and a city they had never seen. They grieved for Idril’s loss and for the symbol that had failed.

 

Just like all the others.

 

* * *

 

 

Maenin was an elleth, and a healer and nothing else. As awe inspiring as some of the eldar could be, she was not among those people. For the most part, heroics to her meant that several non-heroes would be needing her. She would treat a hero should they ever land in her lap of course, but she'd never heard of one who lived to see a healer.

 

But even she found herself listening to the Gondolindrim in front of her in awe. His name was Pengolodh and his tale of the fall of Gondolin was as amazing as it was harrowing.

 

“Two Balrogs,” Rindir, a soldier, said. “Two _died_ at Gondolin?”’

 

“Yes, slain by the lords Echthelion and Glorfindel in single combat.” From there he launched into the tale of the first fight. Next to her, Duinen leaned over.

 

“Has anyone ever done that?” she asked and Maenin, faithful follower of Fingolfin and then Fingon, shook her head.

 

“Not to my knowledge.”

 

* * *

 

Balar was unlike Sirion. Idril had known it would be so, but to live it was different than an abstraction. The buildings here held a sadder energy. Memories of Nírnaeth were built into the foundations of the buildings here, and every tragedy that had struck since seemed to have seeped into the very ground. Still, people moved about and there were a handful of younger elves – adults yes, but young. It eased her heart, somehow, to know that even in Balar there was some sense of safety, sometimes.

 

“Lady Idril,” a silver haired Teleri greeted her with a formal bow.“I am to bring you to lord Círdan and your family.”

 

“Thank you,” she said, dipping a small curtsey in response to his bow.

 

“It’s not far,” he said, “Balar can be a touch overwhelming, the first time though. There wasn’t really a plan, when they started building and so it’s somewhat...” he trailed off. “Haphazard.”

 

“I’m sure it’s charming,” she said as she followed him away from the quay. “I’m afraid I did not get your name,” she said.

 

“Ah yes. I am Thinon,” he said.

 

“Well met,” she said, and looked around.A few curious people watched as they passed, and the air buzzed with chatter, easing some of the feel of the place. She heard bits and pieces – people wondering about the kingship now that her father was dead, people wondering it is was true she, like Lúthien, had taken a mortal as her love. And most curiously, a new word danced on the tongues here.

 

_Balrog-slayer._

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely and utterly inspired by [this little meta](http://chiliadicorum.tumblr.com/post/159569845327/balrog-slayer-a-new-word). I through this together very quickly and so hasn't been cross referenced with my version of the Silm of UT, so any mistakes are those of memory and haste.


End file.
